


ain't afraid of no ghosts

by whimsicalimages



Category: Ghostbusters - All Media Types, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Ghost Hunters, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Ghosts, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-22 22:36:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2524196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicalimages/pseuds/whimsicalimages
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joly is drunk, Musichetta does science, Bossuet recognizes but does not stop terrible plans, and Grantaire helps catch ghosts because apparently he's got nothing else going on. Also, Enjolras definitely doesn't have time to deal with a hell-portal in his refrigerator. </p><p>Or, the Ghostbusters AU that we all collectively deserved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheRussianKat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRussianKat/gifts).



> I shan't make any excuses for this, fandom. I shall only apologize profusely for the [title that I just couldn't resist](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m9We2XsVZfc). Anyway, tumblr user (and AO3 user of the [same name](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRussianKat/)) [therussiankat](http://therussiankat.tumblr.com), I hope you like it!

“Okay, hear me out on this,” Joly says, gesturing with his beer glass.

“Joly, you just got the three of us kicked out of our apartment because we _heard you out_ on something,” Grantaire says. “We are currently homeless. Without a home. Without even a friendly armchair.”

“That’s on Bossuet’s bad luck. I was just doing science, it isn’t my fault that our landlord’s cat got into Bossuet’s bag and got really high.”

“He’s right,” Bossuet agrees, spreading his palms. “If I were a scientist, I’d prove to you that my bad luck has infected everything I own. As but an almost-lawyer without any proof, I can only argue the case.”

“It’s your fault that Bossuet had a packet of concentrated catnip in the first place,” Grantaire says, squinting at Joly, not the least bit dissuaded.

“It was for science. Besides, the cat was fine – the cat probably loved it. Its owner just didn’t. Hear me out on this,” Joly repeats, more forcefully, laying a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. This limits his side-to-side swaying, so it’s probably a good idea, thinks Grantaire. “We become ghost hunters. Ghostbusters, yes? We hunt ghosts. We could even solve your curse, Bossuet!”

“Nothing can solve my curse,” Bossuet responds, cheerful. “Besides, I’ve already learned to live with it.”

“This is a good idea, guys,” Joly insists.

“What’s a good idea, dearest?” Musichetta asks, appearing with four shots and a bottle of wine. Grantaire makes grabbing motions at it – he needs to be more drunk for this conversation. Musichetta holds it out of reach.

“Ghostbusting!” Joly says, beaming at her. She just stares at him. His smile loses some of its wattage, but he presses on. “Hunting ghosts. Also, can we crash at your place for a while? We kind of got kicked out.”

“Okay,” Musichetta says slowly. Joly opens his mouth to say something, but she interrupts. “Yes, Grantaire can take the couch. How’d you get kicked out?”

“Thanks, ‘Chetta, you’re a star,” Grantaire says, lifting his glass to her.

“There was a slight, um, mishap,” Joly says, squirming in his seat. “With a cat. The cat wasn’t hurt! The cat was fine.”

Grantaire coughs. “Joly used our kitchen sink to distill catnip,” he says. “And then the landlord’s cat got really, really high. All – affectionate. And loopy.”

“How drunk were you?” Musichetta asks, her voice exasperated but her smile fond.

“Not nearly as drunk as I am now, or as drunk as I was that time with the hand dryer in the Med Library bathroom,” Joly admits. “But the ghost thing is a good idea! My friend Com, um, Commefrere? Combeferre! Combeferre will totally help us.”

“We agreed never to speak of the hand dryer thing again, and you totally don’t know anyone named Combeferre. How about we talk about imaginary stuff in the morning,” Grantaire says, “and focus on getting drunk right now?”

“The man’s got a point, Joly,” Bossuet says. “We are out of house and home.” Musichetta raises her eyebrows at him, and he amends, “Temporarily. That’s a really good reason to get really drunk.”

Joly stands up and points at Grantaire, but it isn’t particularly dramatic, since they’re about three feet apart. “You’ll see,” he says, ominous, but then immediately sits down and throws back his shot, so Grantaire will count it as a victory. He gets few enough of those, anyway.

-

It turns out that Joly does, in fact, know someone named Combeferre, and he works at the University’s science library. Appropriately, he’s hot, in a librarian sort of way, Grantaire muses.

“Thank God you’re here,” is what he greets them with, looking more visibly shaken than Grantaire thinks 9AM deserves, especially when presumably approached without a hangover. “Joly, you’re the only other person I know who actually believes in these things, and I don’t have any of the equipment we developed with me. There’s a ghost in the stacks!”

“You developed equipment already? Great!” Bossuet asks, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Grantaire thinks his bad luck in most departments is karmic justice for never getting hangovers. Musichetta also doesn’t have a hangover, but Musichetta is letting him sleep at her apartment, so he’s not about to wish ill upon her.

“I’m telling you, ghosts are real and they are dangerous,” Joly says. “We’ve been getting increased readings of paranormal activity for the past few weeks, it’s only reasonable to be prepared. I think something big is going to happen.”

Combeferre nods. “He’s right,” he says. “All the signs point to a huge eruption of some sort of energy coming soon, and it’s going to be devastating if we haven’t adequately readied ourselves.”

Grantaire sighs. He’d taken all the same parapsychology classes that Joly and probably Combeferre had, but he’d spent most of them practicing facial anatomy drawings of all the pretty people who were convinced they had ESP, rather than listening attentively. He hadn’t been sober very often, anyway, at that point in his overall-questionable academic career. “Fine,” he mutters. “Where’s this ghost, Combeferre?”

“I’ll show you, it’s downstairs,” Combeferre says, remarkably calmer now that the rest of them are here. “I’ve seen ghosts around the library before, but they’re normally pretty peaceful. Librarians who passed away, you know? One of them asked me for my mother’s chicken korma recipe after seeing me with a tupperware of it for lunch a few weeks ago. This one’s just unusually angry. It ripped down all the shelves in the section on absurdism. I hope you brought your proton pack.”

Joly nods, pulling what looks like a large, boxy vacuum cleaner out of his backpack and strapping it to himself. “Musichetta, if you will?” he asks.

She reaches into her own bag and withdraws a small black cube by an attached wire. At Grantaire’s perplexed look, she shrugs. “Joly’s science is very sound. I checked all of his equations myself this morning, and my degree is even in actual physics,” she says, handing the cube over to Joly.

“Don’t slight paraphysics,” Joly says mildly. “It’s a living.”

“It really, really isn’t,” Grantaire says.

“Not yet,” Bossuet corrects.

“That’s the spirit!” Joly says, and then grins, realizing what he said. Musichetta and Grantaire groan. Bossuet looks delighted. “Combeferre, lead on.”

They troop down the staircase into the stacks, where Joly takes point.

“Oh, fuck,” Grantaire breathes when they see it. It’s right there, in the poetry section, staring back at him and grinning with all its teeth. It carefully selects a book off the shelf next to it, and begins to chew loudly on a corner.

“Not the Keats compilation,” Combeferre whispers with an aborted hand gesture of regret. Musichetta elbows him to silence.

“Joly,” Grantaire hisses, “what do we do?”

“I’ll try speaking to it, first,” he says, stepping forward.

“This is a terrible idea,” Bossuet says. “And I’m no stranger to terrible ideas. I am telling you, this is a really terrible idea.”

“Hello, Mr. Ghost,” Joly calls. The ghost takes the book out of its mouth to peer at him, and in a blink, it’s several feet closer. To his credit, Joly only jumps a bit. “We would like you to go away, please. Or just be a little quieter, if you can. You’re scaring the lovely readers in this library.”

The ghost looks as if it’s considering his offer, and then it laughs, a grotesque sound that raises all the hair on the back of Grantaire’s neck.

“Or what?” it asks. “What can you do to me? You are small and young, little birds. I can eat you right up, for I am old. I have powers beyond your belief.”

“Okay, what the fuck,” Grantaire says.

“This is it. We’ve fallen into a Grimm’s fairytale where the antagonist is a book-munching ghost,” Musichetta says, sounding unreasonably calm. “There must be some sort of pun to be made here.”

“Now’s probably the time, Joly, if that thing has any offensive capabilities,” Bossuet says, eyeing the box on Joly’s back.

Joly nods. “Are you sure?” he asks the ghost. “I’m trying to be nice here.”

“You’re just a little fool, with your little friends, little bird. Run along, and I shan’t have you for dinner as the main meal to this lovely appetizer,” the ghost says, waving the chewed-on book around.

“All right, shut the fuck up,” Joly says, and presses a button on his backpack vacuum cleaner. A bolt of light bursts out and hits the ghost, which screams and writhes in the air. “Bossuet, put the container on the ground in front of me!”

Bossuet hurries to comply as the ghost screeches, and Joly directs it into the box, slow and steady hands. There’s a whooshing noise as the ghost is absorbed and the container flies shut.

The small black cube whirs quietly for a few moments, and then goes silent.

“Well, that happened,” Grantaire says eventually.

Musichetta smacks him on the shoulder. “I told you Joly’s science was sound,” she says.

“Sorry I didn’t believe you about ghosts being real,” Grantaire replies, then blinks. “Wait, if they’re real, we could totally make this into a business!”

“I told you so,” Joly says, sounding smug.

“Where will we keep the caught ghosts, though?” Bossuet asks.

“We need a base of operations,” Joly says, thoughtful, then slides his eyes to Combeferre.

“No, you absolutely may not use the library as a ghost-catching base,” Combeferre says. “The Public Library can pay you for this time, and I’ll even do what I can to spread the news that your team can actually help people with malevolent ghost issues, but you are not allowed to set up shop in our basement.”

Grantaire frowns, thinking. “There’s an abandoned building on West 62nd we could probably use,” he says. “I think I know the family that owns it.”

“Why is there an abandoned building on the Upper West Side?” Joly says, suspicious.

Grantaire winces. “It might be a little, ah, condemned,” he says. “It’s on the list for being torn down and replaced in the next few years, but for now, it’s standing, and I bet if we moved in we could hold that off.”

“You want us to put dangerous equipment in a structurally unstable building?” Bossuet asks. “I take my previous statement back. _This_ is the reigning terrible idea.”

“Have we got a better option?” Musichetta asks. “Much as I’d love to have you, I can’t house four people in a one-person apartment forever, and there’s definitely no room for a larger supernatural containment unit. There are laws and shit.”

“Well,” Joly says, “no, we haven’t really got a better plan.”

Bossuet rubs his hands together in evident glee. “Let’s do it,” he says.

Really, that’s when Grantaire should put a stop to this.

Unsurprisingly enough – or surprisingly, to those who are unaware that he has the approximate self-preservation instincts of a goldfish – he doesn’t.

-

“Fine, my parents will sell you the property,” Éponine says. “They’re very eager to get rid of it. But – here’s my condition: hire me to run your office. You need someone to filter your business, and I am very good at both getting and keeping business.”

“Is it because you’re terrifying?” Grantaire ventures.

Éponine flicks him in the ear without even turning to look at him. “It’s because I’m a Thenardier, unfortunately,” she says.

“Yeah, okay,” Joly says. “You’re hired.”

“Just like that?” Éponine asks. “Your selection process is astoundingly competitive.”

“We don’t exactly have a line out the door of people looking for employment as ghost-hunters,” Musichetta says.

“They don’t know how lax your hiring practices are,” Éponine mutters, but she gets the electricity turned on for them.

The phone starts ringing as soon as Grantaire plugs it in, and they all freeze and stare at it. Who calls landlines anymore? They may as well get a fax machine.

“God’s sake,” Éponine says, when the shrill noise has continued for long enough that Grantaire’s head begins to hurt, and picks up the receiver. “Hello, you’ve reached the Ghostbusters, one-stop-shop for all your weird supernatural needs. How can I help you?”

She nods as Grantaire, Musichetta, Joly, and Bossuet all look at her. The smile growing on Éponine’s face is truly terrifying. “Uh-huh,” she says, humming to herself and producing a pen from somewhere on her person – Grantaire cannot even remotely guess where. “Hm, could you give me your name and address? We’ll send one of our employees over to have a look as soon as possible.”

She uses her free hand to take Grantaire’s arm and start scribbling information on it, for evident lack of a piece of paper. “Great, we should have someone there in the next hour,” she says. “Thank you for calling the Ghostbusters and have a nice day!”

“Has anyone ever told you that you sound much more cheerful on the phone?” Grantaire asks.

“I have a very sunny disposition,” Éponine replies. “Now, go to that address. Someone on 81st and 2nd is reporting a ghost haunting their fridge, and he’ll be expecting you there soon.”

“Oh, come on, don’t send me there,” Grantaire says, pulling a face. “That’s where all the bank execs and like, rich white lawyers live. I’m not rich enough, white enough, or fluent enough in legalese for anyone there to take me seriously. I’m actually none of those things.”

“I’ll go with you,” Musichetta says. “Then there’ll be two people who are none of those things. Two lefts make a right, and all that.”

“You said you were a scientist,” Grantaire says. “I’m pretty sure that wasn’t very scientifically accurate.”

Musichetta smiles beatifically at him. “Or you can go alone, with the equipment you haven’t really figured out how to use yet,” she says.

“No, no,” Grantaire says. “Come on.”

-

It turns out to be very good indeed that Musichetta comes along, because when the door to 303B swings open, it reveals possibly the most arresting human being Grantaire has ever seen in real life, and he is rendered slightly incapable of speech.

“We’re Ghostbusters, and we’re here to help with your spooky little problem,” Musichetta says. At the blank look on the guy’s face, she adds, “You did call us, right?”

“Yes,” he says. “And I’m Enjolras.”

He stretches out a hand to shake Musichetta’s. “My name is Musichetta,” she says. She takes pity on Grantaire – who is clearly still trying to recover his verbal acumen when Enjolras goes to shake his hand – and introduces him, too. “This is Grantaire.”

“Good to meet you,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire is jolted back to reality. He shakes the guy’s outstretched hand, brisk and professional. Unreasonably handsome though this man may be, even in four words he sounds like he’d rather be anywhere else, with anyone else.

“Let’s see about this ghost in your fridge, yeah?” Grantaire asks, and Enjolras gestures them inside. The walls are lined with bookshelves, and Grantaire can’t help but smile when he sees the dog-eared copy of _De Officiis_ on the coffee table. Ah, Cicero. One of his favorite sentimental fools.  

“I called as soon as Combeferre told me that you were open for business,” Enjolras says. “All the nighttime rattling gets aggravating when I’m concentrating on my, ah, coursework.”

Student with rich enough parents that they’re renting him a place on the Upper East Side so he can live in luxury while he’s getting his post-grad, all on their penny: check. Unrealistically beautiful: check. Reads pre-Christian political philosophy for fun: check. Great. Way to pick ‘em, Grantaire, he thinks. Always go for the ones who won’t spare a second glance for mere mortals. There’s a winning strategy.

The kitchen is quiet and the fluorescent lights are very bright. Enjolras hovers in the doorway, obedient despite all appearances when Grantaire tells him to stay put after placing the containment box on the ground. Musichetta readies her proton pack as Grantaire pulls open the refrigerator door to see – a whirling darkness. No ghosts, but looking at it makes him dizzy, and also like his surroundings are melting.

“Close it,” Musichetta grits out.

Grantaire pushes, but it feels like slogging through molasses. He’s almost there – there’s only a small crack of that horrible nothing left, but before he can push it closed completely, something flies out and starts to bounce around the room.

The door is closed, so he regains his senses as the thing is headed for Enjolras, enough to shove him out of the way and duck himself. Musichetta, quicker on her feet than either of them, swears and manages to zap the ghost into the tiny box after a few shots which do some damage to Enjolras’ walls and ceiling.

She holds her hand up to Grantaire, and he wordlessly high-fives her.

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, ostensibly to her, but he’s looking at Grantaire, who can only look back and feel a vague sense of pride that he stopped Enjolras from getting slimed or – hurt.

Musichetta looks between them, dawning horror on her face. “Jesus Christ,” she says. “I am not nearly drunk enough for this.”

Grantaire just smiles, tentative. Enjolras, bless him, smiles back. Then he seems to come to a realization, and looks away. Well, Grantaire thinks, it could be worse. He got a smile, at least.

Enjolras coughs. “In all seriousness, thank you both,” he says. “Is there anything to do about the refrigerator?”

Musichetta and Grantaire glance at one another. “We’ll look into it and get back to you,” Musichetta says. “Do you have an email we can reach you at?”

“I’ll just give you my phone number, it’ll be easier,” Enjolras says. He pulls open a kitchen drawer and rummages around in it before his hand emerges with a paper and pen, triumphant. He scribbles something and thrusts the paper at Grantaire. “Just call me or – text me. Whichever is simpler. I’d really like to use my fridge as a fridge again.”

“Absolutely,” Grantaire agrees. “We’ll be in touch as soon as we have any news.”

Enjolras nods. “Thanks again,” he says. “I have to go to a meeting now, though, but let me know if anything comes up.”

Musichetta rolls her eyes and pulls Grantaire out by his sleeve. “Come on,” she says. “We’ll call you, Enjolras!”


	2. Chapter 2

They make it into the elevator before Musichetta turns and stares him down. “What?” Grantaire asks, but her stare only intensifies a notch.

“You were looking at that dude like you wanted him to bend you over right in front of his own haunted refrigerator,” she says finally.

“He’s hot,” Grantaire defends. “Is it such a crime?”

“Client,” Musichetta says. “After we get rid of his ghost problem, seduce away.”

Grantaire waves her off, face heating. “I know, I know,” he says. “I’m not gonna jeopardize the job, you know that. Somehow, my livelihood currently depends on paraphysics.”

Musichetta softens. “Yeah, I know,” she says, then smirks. “He is hot, though. After we fix things, you should go for it.”

Grantaire snorts. “Yeah, because the unattainable ones always want _this_ ,” he says, gesturing at his own – unimpressive – face.

“Shut up,” Musichetta says, sharp. “He’d be foolish not to.”  

“You’re obligated to say that as my friend,” Grantaire replies.

“No, I’m obligated to say that as an honest person,” she says. “As your friend, I’m obligated to tell you to shut the fuck up and get over your crisis of confidence so you can ask the hot guy out after we figure out how to destroy the hell-portal in his fridge, because you are a great piece of ass.”

“Checklist: one, destroy ghost-portal. Two, convince myself I’m a great piece of ass. Three, ask Enjolras out. Easy as that,” Grantaire repeats, dry.

Musichetta nods. “Easy as that,” she says. “Let’s get started then, shall we?”

-

It turns out that getting started is more difficult than advertised.

“He has a _portal_ in his fridge?” Joly asks. This is the fourth time, with about an hour and a half of intermittent pacing around the ground floor of the building they’ve established themselves in. Each time he’s said the word “portal” has been more shrill than the previous.

“Yes,” Grantaire repeats, also for the fourth time. He likes to think he’s been keeping a measured tone.

“It’s worse than we thought,” Combeferre’s voice says, tinny through Joly’s phone speakers. “If the portal already exists, whatever is coming is definitely coming soon.”

“Did you hear roaring? Strange clattering?” Joly asks.

“No, but Enjolras said he was hearing weird noises,” Musichetta says.

Éponine runs into the room, out of breath. “Enjolras is calling,” she says.

Grantaire can practically hear Combeferre’s frown over the phone. “He left the meeting after me, he must have only just gotten home,” he says, but Grantaire is already running for the phone at the front desk.

“Hello?” he asks, receiver pressed to his ear. “Enjolras, are you all right?”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras hisses. “I’m currently in my bedroom with the door locked and barricaded because there is some sort of large and angry animal with glowing eyes in my apartment that keeps calling itself Zuul. Please tell me this falls within your purview.”

“Pretty sure it does,” Grantaire says. “I need you to not panic, okay? Just stay in your room with the door locked. Can you climb out to the balcony and escape?”

A frustrated huff. “No,” Enjolras says. “The balconies on this side are too small and far apart, and my climbing gear is in the other room so I can’t scale the wall.”

Why does Enjolras scale walls in his spare time? Grantaire doesn’t voice the thought. They’re on a tight schedule, here. “Okay, everything will be fine, just stay put, we’ll be there soon, okay?”

“Fine,” Enjolras says, clipped, and hangs up.

Grantaire puts the phone down. “Great,” he mumbles. “Guys, Enjolras is in trouble! We need to get over to 81st, now!”

“What did he say?” Bossuet asks.

“That there was some sort of hell-beast in his apartment and he’s trapped in his bedroom,” Grantaire says. “And that it’s calling itself Zuul.”

“Zuul,” Joly repeats, thoughtful, still cradling his own cellphone. “Where have I heard that before? Combeferre, heard of a Zuul before?”

“Fuck,” Combeferre’s voice says vehemently. “He’s in trouble. This is far too soon – I must have miscalculated somewhere, this wasn’t supposed to be for weeks yet. I need to brush up on my knowledge of hieroglyphics, I read something wrong somewhere – I’ll meet you all at his place, I can get there faster.”

“You don’t have any equipment, you can’t do that,” Joly says, but Combeferre has already hung up.

“He has a working knowledge of hieroglyphics? Where did you _find_ this guy?” Grantaire demands.

“Won’t matter if the world ends,” Joly says.

“Well, shit,” Musichetta says. “Guess it’s time to suit up.”

As they make haste to put their outfits on, Éponine jumps up from her laptop, looking victorious and also horrified. “The good news is, I managed to tell Enjolras he wasn’t allowed to die before Grantaire asked him out. The bad news is, Zuul was one of the demigod servants of Gozer the Destructor, worshipped in ancient times by the Sumerians,” she reads. “When Zuul, the Gatekeeper, and the other demigod, the Keymaster, both awaken and unite, it shall herald the annihilation of everything humans hold dear. That sounds pretty bad. I’m gonna say you all should prevent that from happening, thanks.”

“What?” says Grantaire, and gets roundly ignored.

“We’re going to try,” Bossuet says.

-

When they get to the building, there are a few news trucks settled on the street, watching the unnatural-looking dark storm brewing above 81st. Anchors chatter away about the bizarre weather phenomena and ignore the four strangely-dressed people moving in, so Grantaire supposes he should feel grateful that they haven’t become famous yet.  

Combeferre is pacing inside the lobby, waiting for them. “Zuul is a deity whose appearance heralds the end of the world,” he says. “Joly, please tell me you did the research.”

“Éponine filled us in,” Musichetta responds, grim.

“Then you know this is going to be very dangerous,” Combeferre says. “Especially if the other deity, Vinz Clortho, has already taken a host, which is likely.”

Joly looks at the other three and straightens his shoulders. “We know,” he says. “Let’s go.”

“I’ll watch your backs,” Combeferre says, taking a small weapon that looks like a taser out of his pocket. What the hell kind of group does Enjolras run? Combeferre must read the question in Grantaire’s face, because he smiles and says, “Did Enjolras not tell you? We do a spot of anarchy here and there. Demonstrations and the like. Sometimes they do get violent, as tends to happen when you have a bunch of people chanting in a public place and most of them don’t have a skin color the police approve of.”

“Shit,” Grantaire says, but he can’t help grinning. “That’s pretty badass.”

“About to go kill a couple world-ending demons, here,” Bossuet says. “We’re pretty badass, too, R.”

“I guess,” Grantaire says.

“Come on,” Musichetta says, gesturing at the stairs.

The stairway is silent, and so is Enjolras’ hall. It feels eerie – like something is off. The picture frames are all hanging not-quite-straight.

“Stay behind me,” Joly says, voice low. “Keep your weapons ready.”

There’s a shout from behind them, and Combeferre falls to the ground, his glasses flying off. He shudders, then draws himself up. “Where is Zuul?” he asks.

“We’re headed to Zuul now,” Bossuet says, confused.

Combeferre is over to him in an instant. “Where is Zuul?” he asks again, hand fisting in the front of Bossuet’s shirt.

Musichetta pulls him back. “Calm down, Combeferre,” she says. “What’s wrong with you?”

“That is not my name,” Combeferre says. “I am Clortho.”

“Fuck,” Joly says, and then hits Combeferre hard upside the head with the tube end of his proton pack.

-

Even once they’ve tied Combeferre up and locked him into a supply closet, the hall is still worryingly serene.

“Are these demons actually trying to summon the end of the world?” Grantaire asks.

“As far as I can tell, yes,” Joly says, furiously typing away on his phone. “Combeferre’s research was incomplete, but he did send most of it to me.”

The door to Enjolras’ apartment creaks open, and Enjolras steps out. He looks like he’s dressed in red – drapes. Those are definitely the drapes that Grantaire saw in his living room earlier, and Enjolras is wearing them as a toga.

“I am Zuul,” Enjolras says, striding over to Grantaire, who has frozen like a deer in headlights. “I am the Gatekeeper.”

“Hi, Zuul,” Joly says. “Could we talk to Enjolras, please?”

“When has that ever worked?” Bossuet asks.

“Worth a shot,” Musichetta says.

“I am the Gatekeeper,” Enjolras repeats, too-dark eyes peering at Grantaire without blinking. “Where is the Keymaster?”

“We’ll take you to the Keymaster,” Grantaire says carefully. “If you let us speak to Enjolras.”

“There is no Enjolras here!” Enjolras cries, pushing Grantaire back against the wall, hitting his head painfully. “There is only Zuul.”

Enjolras’ body keels over, and he lets out an inhuman shriek. “Return control of my body,” he grits out. “I refuse this! I will not stand down to you!”

“Enjolras?” Grantaire asks, ungracefully scrambling to his side. “Is that you?”

Enjolras looks at him, but then the furious blue of his eyes melts back into darkness and he shoves Grantaire away again.

“Young love,” Musichetta says, dry. “So fickle.”

“A little assistance would be good, thanks,” Grantaire says, heaving himself off the floor as Enjolras looks around, motions wild. He eventually hones in on the closet where Combeferre is trapped, and makes his way over there, the bolts of proton energy sliding right off of him.

Enjolras opens the door before Grantaire can manage to tackle him, and Combeferre walks out, duct tape having fallen off of him. They link hands and grin predatorily.

“This isn’t good, is it?” Bossuet asks.

“No,” Joly confirms. “It’s really not.”

Enjolras and Combeferre raise both their arms simultaneously, and the resulting boom sends Joly, Bossuet, Musichetta and Grantaire to the ground, groaning.

“Remember who you are, Enjolras!” Grantaire yells, his limbs still not cooperating.

“Not helpful,” Joly says. “This isn’t _The Lion King_.”

“Do you have any better ideas?” Grantaire asks.

Joly just cringes in response. Enjolras and Combeferre have already disappeared into Enjolras’ apartment, and a loud wind is blowing down the hall. Wind’s not supposed to blow inside buildings, Grantaire thinks, fuzzy. His brain hurts. It had been a mistake not to bring his flask.

Musichetta pulls herself up first, jaw clenched in pain. “Let’s go, boys,” she says. “We’ve got a world to save from certain doom.”

“You’d make a great superhero, ‘Chetta,” Bossuet says. “Me, I’m not sure.”

“Get up,” Joly says, nudging him with a foot.

Grantaire pushes himself upright, and scowls. “Enjolras isn’t theirs to take,” he says. “Let’s do this.”

They limp their way into Enjolras’ apartment, but Enjolras and Combeferre have already vanished. “The roof,” Joly says, already running back out to the stairs. “They need a large area to summon Gozer.”

“Fucking stairs,” Grantaire says as the rest of them follow. “Fucking shit, fucking stairs. Fuck.”

“Cosigned,” Bossuet says.

They press onwards, panting their way to the top of the stairwell.

“Well,” Musichetta says. “It looks like they’re going to have to do some remodeling.”

She’s right, of course. The entire roof looks like a disaster zone, with Enjolras and Combeferre standing at either corner and a massive light-show happening in the middle.

“Holy shit,” Grantaire says, as the light coalesces into a form.

“I am Gozer the Gozerian, Gozer the destructor, brought by my loyal servants to oversee the ultimate ending,” the being says.

“Yeah, we’re gonna need you to not do that,” Musichetta says.

It tilts its head at her, curious. Joly brandishes his proton pack, baring his teeth. “Why not?” Gozer says. “I have waited countless centuries for the moment when I could return. Why would you deny me this, small human?”

“We aren’t finished with the world yet,” Bossuet says. “We don’t want you to destroy it.”

“It’s not about what you want,” it says, smiling cruelly. “It’s about what I want. And I want the end, so that I can have dominion over what was once promised to me.”

“We’re the ones who actually live here, don’t we get a say?” Grantaire asks.

Its grin grows wider. “No,” Gozer says, and flicks its fingers, sending Grantaire sprawling back with a wave of power. It beckons to Enjolras and Combeferre, and they come closer to it, like lapdogs. “Come, let us prepare. One of these must choose the final form that the end will take.”

“One of these must choose,” Joly repeats under his breath. “One of us has to choose! Don’t think of anything, whatever we think of will be used against us! Think of nothing!”

“The choice has been made,” Gozer’s voice booms around them.

“Nobody made a choice! Who made a choice?” Joly yells.

“Er,” Bossuet says. “I think that might’ve been my bad.”

“What the hell did you choose?” Grantaire asks, as echoing footsteps come closer to them, shaking the building under their feet.

“Something that I thought could never harm us,” Bossuet says.

“Oh, God,” Musichetta says, looking down at the street below.

For a moment, they can only stare, numb with shock.

“It’s the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man,” Grantaire finally manages.

“Yep,” Joly agrees.

It’s a monstrously huge version of the beloved marshmallow mascot, and it’s coming to kill all of them. “Kneel before me!” Gozer yells behind them, and then there’s a faint thud.

Grantaire whirls around, and sees Enjolras standing over the fallen body of Gozer, twirling Combeferre’s taser in his fingers. Combeferre himself is rubbing the back of his head, trembling.

“Damn,” Musichetta says, raising her eyebrows. “You can keep him, Grantaire. He gets my stamp of approval.”

“Nobody controls my mind except me, and nobody makes me kneel,” Enjolras says. Gozer’s light still frames him, giving him a cloak of brightness; Grantaire thinks that he might be in love.

“We still have to destroy the portal and the Destructor,” Combeferre says, pulling Enjolras away from the light. “Joly, you need to cross the streams!”

“Combeferre, we could all die!” Joly says. “It might work in theory, but in practice if we throw that much energy at the thing, we don’t know what’ll happen.”

“If we don’t, a fucking marshmallow is going to sink Manhattan,” Musichetta says.

“Don’t you love when choices are between bad and worse?” Bossuet says, grinning.

Joly purses his lips. “Fine,” he says. “At least we go down together. On my mark, fire at the portal – make sure to meld our streams together. Three, two, one–”

They fire their proton packs at the light, and everything shines like the sun for bare, tranquil moments before there is an enormous explosion and Grantaire feels his body get thrown several feet.

He groans. “We didn’t die, did we?” he asks.

“Shockingly, no,” Combeferre responds from – somewhere.

Grantaire opens his eyes, and makes a face. There’s marshmallow goo on his hands and all over his uniform. The others are no better off. Naturally, Bossuet seems to have gotten the worst of it, covered head to toe in the stuff.

“At least I don’t have hair it could’ve gotten into, unlike the lot of you,” Bossuet says, catching Grantaire's sympathetic expression.

“This is going to be a motherfucker to clean out,” Musichetta concedes. “But we’re alive, so there’s that consolation.”

“It’s the little victories that keep me going,” Joly says, wiping his hands off.

Grantaire hauls himself to his feet. Enjolras has picked his way over, and is watching him in a way that should be more disconcerting than it is.

“Hello, Enjolras,” Grantaire says. “In case you’ve forgotten, my name is Grantaire, and I hope you enjoyed that near-death experience. Safe fun for the whole family, that’s what we here at Ghostbusters do our best to provide–”

He’s stopped by a finger on his lips. “Ask me on a date,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire almost chokes on his own sharp intake of breath. “What?” he asks.

“Ask me,” Enjolras says, slower, “on a date. I know you were going to. If it helps, I’ll say yes.”

Éponine was a sly _fucker_. “Um,” Grantaire says, eloquence once again failing him. “Enjolras, will you go on a date with me which hopefully won’t involve supernatural interference from any corners of the known universe?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, small smile on his face. “Can I kiss you now?”

“Jesus wept, Enjolras, what do you think my answer could possibly be?” Grantaire breathes, but before the tiny furrow in Enjolras’ brow can make an appearance, he presses their lips together.

Musichetta wolf-whistles loudly from where she stands with Joly and Bossuet, and Éponine has appeared out of the stairwell, clicking away with her phone camera and mumbling about social media traffic.

“Ah, young love,” Bossuet says, leaning on Joly, who has miraculously managed to get most of the goo out of his hair. Musichetta slings an arm around his waist. “Not so fickle after all.”

“No,” Musichetta says, grinning, and draws them both in for a hug. “Not even a little.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure: I know someone who distilled catnip, I know an awful lot of people who live in New York, and I don't know anything about ghost portals, but I like to think I'm pretty okay at making things up. Thanks for going on this wild adventure with me. Say hi on [tumblr](http://keensers.tumblr.com)!


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